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The first playdate I arranged was a result of an infant and toddler reading hour at my local library in the fall of 2002. Freshly unemployed from a demanding dot-com job, I found myself with my 18-month-old daughter, Lily, at home all day.
Adrift in the uncertainty between jobs, I suddenly transformed into a stay-at-home mom, prioritizing playdates and nap times over work commitments. I can still picture that mid-morning story hour, with Lily squirming in my lap while the librarian read aloud to a room full of toddlers. Those moments marked a pivotal shift in my life — from a working mother who juggled guilt to a self-employed mom who centered her life around her child’s needs.
I don’t recall many specifics from those early days, but I vividly remember holding Lily on that worn library rug, her bright green eyes taking in the world, her soft hair brushing against my chin. It’s like a faded photograph, sepia-toned and frayed at the edges.
The first little girl we set up a playdate with was Sophie. Coincidentally, she was born on the same day as Lily — May 16, 2001. “I remember you,” Sophie’s mother remarked during story time. I immediately recognized her from a baby bath lesson we had attended together. We shared a fleeting connection that lasted perhaps a year or two.
Now, I find myself grasping for memories of those playdates, those transitional days between identities, where little girls in pastel dresses explored the world. Two children with boundless potential but differing fates.
Social media showcases the growth of children I once knew: they’ve blossomed into young adults. Since Lily passed away, I’ve lost contact with many of her friends and their parents, but I still see their milestones on my feed. Even the youngest siblings have outgrown Lily. I marvel at their height and changing faces. Time has transformed them; they are no longer the chubby-cheeked kids I once knew.
It shouldn’t be surprising — it has been four years since Lily’s passing and over a decade since I last saw many of these children. Yet, I remain locked in the memory of their childhoods, just as I am with Lily’s.
As these children near the end of their own childhoods, they will embark on new chapters without grasping the fragility of life. This is how it should be; young ones shouldn’t be burdened by thoughts of mortality. Death should linger as a distant concern, allowing us to navigate life’s complexities.
Twenty years ago in early May, I was anxiously awaiting Lily’s arrival, with a due date of May 6. However, Lily took her time, and after being induced and enduring eight hours of labor, I finally became a mother.
Why did she delay her entrance? I ponder this as spring blooms and the dogwood tree flowers. Did she sense, deep down, that her time would be short? Did she stretch her arrival to savor a few more moments? Oh, how I wish I could have held her those extra days — warm and safe in my arms, gazing up at me with her captivating eyes.
In Lily’s early weeks, I felt utterly disconnected from the world, consumed by the present moment. But life rushed back; I returned to work when she was just six weeks old. By then, I had embraced my new role, with no intention of looking back.
Twenty years have passed; the landscape around me has changed. My body, my mind, and my soul have all evolved. Yet, Lily’s room remains untouched in essence, though its color has shifted from pink to white. I now use it as my office, creating a space filled with light and memories.
The swing set, picnic table, and other remnants of her childhood have since vanished. I close my eyes and summon the memories of those joyful days when I took everything for granted, alongside the promise of her life.
Our culture presents a silent assumption that our children will always survive, that childhood will flow seamlessly into adulthood. This is an illusion. May 16 marks the 20th anniversary of my motherhood. It’s hard to fathom that two decades have passed since I stood beside another new mom, watching our babies receive their first baths, blissfully unaware that one of us would face a tragic reality.
I’m not envious of the mothers whose children thrive. Each child who crossed paths with Lily holds a special place in my heart. I hope they carry her memory with them.
As I see smiling graduates and young drivers, I feel the ache of a future Lily should have experienced. For the first time since her passing, I’ve come to terms with the magnitude of her absence.
Twenty years is a significant milestone. My dear girl, this birthday should celebrate everything ahead of her life, but instead, it highlights my grief and lost opportunities for her.
How can I not feel robbed on her behalf? We are led to believe that if we are diligent and nurturing parents, our children will transition safely into adulthood. Yet, here I am, preparing to commemorate Lily’s 20th birthday by placing fresh flowers beside her urn.
I acknowledge my sorrow. My spirit feels heavy in the shadow of this unbirthday. Yet, I’ve learned to allow grief to wash over me before I embrace the task of living. The warmth of spring surrounds me, a reminder of life’s beauty and unpredictability.
Nothing is guaranteed. I now know that life’s promises are illusions.
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Summary
This reflective piece captures the poignant journey of a mother navigating the complexities of grief after the loss of her daughter. It illustrates the bittersweet memories of childhood, the assumptions society makes about parental guarantees, and the evolving nature of identity over two decades. The author shares her emotional landscape, acknowledging both the joys of motherhood and the profound absence left by her daughter.